The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [205]
I hadn’t heard Mrs. Beardsley come up behind me; for a heavyset woman, she moved with remarkable silence.
“What do you mean to do?” she asked, her voice sounding neutral and remote.
“Your husband’s toes are gangrenous,” I said. No point in trying not to alarm Beardsley now. “I’ll have to amputate his foot.” There was really no choice, though my heart sank at the notion of spending the next several days—or weeks—here, nursing Beardsley. I could hardly leave him to the tender care of his wife!
She circled the table slowly, coming to a stop near his feet. Her face was blank, but a tiny smile appeared at the corners of her mouth, winking on and off, as though quite without her willing it. She looked at the blackened toes for a long minute, then shook her head.
“No,” she said softly. “Let him rot.”
The question of Beardsley’s understanding was resolved, at least; his open eye bulged, and he let out a shriek of rage, thrashing and flailing in an effort to get at her, so that he came perilously near to falling onto the floor in his struggles. Jamie seized him, shoving and heaving to keep his ponderous bulk on the table. As Beardsley at last subsided, gasping and making mewling noises, Jamie straightened up, gasping himself, and gave Mrs. Beardsley a look of extreme dislike.
She hunched her shoulders, pulling her shawl tight around them, but didn’t retreat or look away. She raised her chin defiantly.
“I am hith wife,” she said. “I thall not let you cut him. It ith a rithk to hith life.”
“It’s certain death if I don’t,” I said shortly. “And a nasty one, too. You—” I didn’t get to finish; Jamie put a hand on my shoulder, squeezing hard.
“Take her outside, Claire,” he said quietly.
“But—”
“Outside.” His hand tightened on my shoulder, almost painful in its pressure. “Dinna come back until I call for ye.”
His face was grim, but there was something in his eyes that made me go hollow and watery inside. I glanced at the sideboard, where his pistols lay beside my medicine chest, then back at his face, appalled.
“You can’t,” I said.
He looked at Beardsley, his face bleak.
“I would put down a dog in such case without a second’s thought,” he said softly. “Can I do less for him?”
“He is not a dog!”
“No, he is not.” His hand dropped from my shoulder, and he circled the table, until he stood by Beardsley’s side.
“If ye understand me, man—close your eye,” he said quietly. There was a moment’s silence, and Beardsley’s bloodshot eye fixed on Jamie’s face—with undeniable intelligence. The lid closed slowly, then rose again.
Jamie turned to me.
“Go,” he said. “Let it be his choice. If—or if not—I will call for ye.”
My knees were trembling, and I knotted my hands in the folds of my skirt.
“No,” I said. I looked at Beardsley, then swallowed hard and shook my head. “No,” I said again. “I—if you . . . you must have a witness.”
He hesitated a moment, but then nodded.
“Aye, you’re right.” He glanced at Mrs. Beardsley. She stood stock-still, hands knotted under her apron, eyes darting from me to Jamie to her husband and back. Jamie shook his head briefly, then turned back to the stricken man, squaring his shoulders.
“Blink once for yes, twice for nay,” he said. “You understand?”
The eyelid lowered without hesitation.
“Listen, then.” Jamie drew a deep breath and began to speak, in a flat, unemotional tone of voice, his eyes steady on the ruined face and the fierce gaze of its open eye.
“Ye ken what has happened to you?”
Blink.
“Ye ken that my wife is a physician, a healer?”
The eye rolled in my direction, then back to Jamie. Blink.
“She says that you have suffered an apoplexy, that the damage canna be mended. You understand?”
A huffing sound came from the lopsided mouth. This was not news. Blink.
“Your foot is putrid. If it is not taken off, you will rot and die. You understand?”
No response.